


Damn Beautiful, Indeed

by DracoWillHearAboutThis



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death in Another Timeline, Caretaking, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Follows Canon Timeline up to S03E05, Friends to Lovers, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Trigger Warning for Description of Symptoms, mentions of vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 11:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20506154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoWillHearAboutThis/pseuds/DracoWillHearAboutThis
Summary: Quentin had not questioned it, at first, when Eliot had taken to disappearing for days without notice, not to be seen anywhere around the cottage or the campus. He figured that who partied as hard as Eliot and Margo did have to deal with the occasional aftermath like any other mortal. That was until he noticed that Eliot and Margo didn't do hangovers.That left the mystery of where Eliot disappeared to whenever he was MIA unsolved.





	Damn Beautiful, Indeed

**Author's Note:**

> Back with my second Queliot fic! Basically, I started writing this right after the first one, because when I had the first 95% written, I got held off by a migraine attack. I've been suffering from migraines since my childhood and I realised I'd never really written about it. I figured it might be a cathartic experience and maybe there were others out there with similar conditions to mine, or if not, maybe you'd like to read about it from a person who knows the condition first-hand or you'd just enjoy a story that is nurtured from my experiences. 
> 
> Eliot seemed like the perfect candidate for me. I don't think I'd have even gotten the idea without Eliot in the first place. Maybe it's also The Magicians fandom being such a supportive, accepting place that I felt safe to explore my own experiences like that. In any case, I hope you enjoy what I did with this. The story is basically the same, apart from the fact that Eliot suffers from migraines and Quentin finds out, and how it changes the dynamics between them little by little.
> 
> Now, enough talk from my side. Please, go ahead and read, and don't forget to drop me a comment at the end, I'd love to read your thoughts :D

Quentin had met Eliot as the life and soul of every party. From the moment he had set foot into the Physical Kids Cottage, he had been swept into more than one of Eliot's little events, signature cocktail in hand and the other's arm slung around his shoulders as a comforting, grounding weight, and he had quickly grown used to the older boy's image as Brakebills' prince of the night.

He had not questioned it, at first, when Eliot had taken to disappearing for days without notice, not to be seen anywhere around the cottage or the campus. He figured that who partied as hard as Eliot and Margo did have to deal with the occasional aftermath like any other mortal. That was until he noticed that Eliot and Margo didn't  _ do _ hangovers. After one particularly gruesome night, through which Eliot had roped him into drinking two whole bottles of wine between the two of them, Eliot appeared downstairs the next morning fresh as a daisy, while Quentin felt like hell warmed over. 

"How do you do it?" Quentin moaned, ready to run back to the bathroom and throw up just at the sight of his cheerful face. 

"The wonders of hangover potions, Q," Eliot grinned, slinging an arm around his shoulder and leading him back up the stairs. "You still have a lot to learn, young Padawan. Come on, let me set you up."

And that was that question answered. No hangovers for partying professionals. That left only the mystery of where Eliot disappeared to whenever he was MIA unsolved.

It was on one such afternoon when he hadn't seen Eliot around all day that he spotted Margo alone in a corner of the cottage, reading. The whole image seemed so out of character that Quentin had to pause for a moment. Margo was rarely to be seen without Eliot  _ unless  _ they were off doing something nefarious.

"Hey," Quentin said, approaching her without a second thought. Margo might be marginally more fearsome than Eliot, but he couldn't deny that he had come to consider her, too, a friend, and the way she smiled up at him when she took note of his presence confirmed that impression of his.

"Hey, my favourite super nerd," she greeted him. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," Quentin shrugged. "Just wondering if you'd seen Eliot around?"

"He's up in his room, sleeping," Margo replied casually. 

"Is he okay?" Quentin frowned, a little thrown. 

"Sure," Margo nodded, a little too brusquely, but she covered it immediately with a feral grin. "I'll tell him you were worried, he'll be  _ so  _ pleased."

"Shut up," Quentin gave her a half-hearted eye-roll, but he recognised the clear signs of dismissal and let the subject drop.

He did not find out what was wrong with Eliot until much later, and then by accident. He had been looking for Eliot with a question on the tip of his tongue, the matter seeming so vitally important at that very moment that when he had come across neither him nor Margo by the end of his search, he had braved his room.

He'd knocked on the door twice, and when there had been no answer, he had tried the doorknob, slightly surprised to find it unlocked. He pushed into the room to step into complete darkness. The curtains were drawn tightly shut and there was staggering stillness to the room, one he hadn't associated with someone like Eliot. Yet, he could feel his presence immediately, and when his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, he found him in bed, buried under his covers and blearily blinking up at Quentin, his hand quickly coming up to shield his eyes from the light. 

"Q?" he croaked.

"Shit, sorry," Quentin muttered, staring at him with mounting horror. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I wasn't sleeping," Eliot slurred, and his voice sounded… off, somehow. It made Quentin's stomach drop.

"Are you alright?" he asked, a little timidly. 

"Not really," Eliot sighed. "Can you shut the door, please? The light hurts my head."

Quentin quickly stepped fully into the room, pulling the door shut behind himself - with a little too much force, it seemed, because Eliot flinched at the noise. 

"Sorry!" Quentin breathed, distressed now.

"Don't worry," Eliot waved him off, though his voice was clearly strained. "It's just - light and loud noises…"

"What's wrong?" Quentin asked, hesitantly crossing the room to sit on the very edge of Eliot's bed.

Eliot sighed and closed his eyes. He looked really pale, Quentin noted, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. 

"I'm prone to migraines," Eliot told him, a little dispassionately. "Which I know sounds like the picture book excuse for getting out of sex, but it's actually a thing with me, I'm afraid."

"Damn, El," Quentin muttered. "I had no idea."

"Yeah, that's because I don't exactly tell people about it on a regular basis," Eliot shrugged. "Muggles tend to think you're playing up a mere headache if you call in sick for a migraine. You can't imagine how Magicians look at me every time I tell the truth." 

"Why?" Quentin asked, sincerely confused. "I mean, if you could use magic to heal yourself, I'm sure you would have done it already."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," Eliot sighed, gifting him with a tired smile. "You're about the only one who thinks that way, though. Most people tend to believe that magic is the answer to everything. The idea that it can't heal some freak defect like migraine doesn't occur to them."

"I see," Quentin breathed, frowning. "Just like medicine and depression, then."

Eliot opened his eyes at that, looking at him.

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe a little."

Quentin gnawed at his lip, scanning Eliot's face. "I'm sorry I disturbed your rest," he apologised.

"It's okay," Eliot shrugged. "I took painkillers in time today, I'm not likely to throw up."

"That can happen?" Quentin asked, appalled. 

"I told you, it's no mere headaches," Eliot sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "I get really fucked up for the day."

"I can see that," Quentin pointed out. 

"Anyway," Eliot grumbled. "What did you want in the first place?"

Quentin found that he had quite forgotten. 

It was weirdly unsettling to be in on Eliot's secret like this. From now on, whenever he could not find the older boy, he would start worrying whether Eliot was okay or not and if he should go check on him. Not that he knew how to help him even if he found him in the midst of an attack, he reminded himself. He would probably be more of a bother than anything else. And sure enough, when he asked Margo straight-out one afternoon, she pretty much confirmed his suspicions on that front. 

"He told you?" Margo frowned, clearly surprised. "That's unusual. Then again, he's always been pretty partial towards you."

"Is there anything we can do to help when he has an attack?" he asked, glancing upstairs to where Eliot was currently resting. 

Her expression was soft as she watched him, but turned regretful with the shake of her head. 

"Not really," she told him. "I mean, sometimes, when it gets  _ really  _ bad and he doesn't have his meds on him, I'll help out. I'll bring him a towel drenched in cold water, for example, because his headaches get really intense and apparently it helps to press something cold against his forehead. And well, there's the lovely matter of vomiting, but he usually likes me out of the room for that. And when the attacks start, I always make it a point to not let him get home alone because his vision is restricted."

"What?!" Quentin injected, blinking at her. "He can't  _ see?!" _

"Yeah, kinda," she grimaced. "It's called an 'aura'. It's the first symptom of an attack. He says it's like that moment when you looked at something too bright and there's an imprint in your vision. Only for him, it doesn't leave. It stays and grows larger until he can't really see out of one eye. And that's what tips him off that an attack is coming. And if he doesn't get his hands on meds at that stage, then things get  _ really _ bad."

"Are we sure that this is not actually some kind of sick, twisted curse?" Quentin muttered, making Margo smile. 

"If it was, we could heal it with magic," he sighed. "Alas, there are a couple of Muggle meds that can suppress attacks if you take them constantly, but they don't really help for El. Maybe _because_ of his magic."

"Damn," Quentin muttered. "That really sucks."

"You know him," Margo shrugged. "He doesn't really complain. I know it really grinds on his nerves sometimes, especially because barely anyone believes that he's actually sick when it happens - his father used to send him out on the field throughout attacks, old homophobic git, told him not to be a pussy - but he'll just gulp it down and deal with it on his own time. That's how he is."

If anything, that made Quentin feel even more miserable. He glanced up at the ceiling again, as if he could look right through it into Eliot's room.

"There's nothing we can do for him right now, Q," she told him once again, though not unkindly. "He took his meds in time. All he needs now is darkness and silence and rest."

"Alright," Quentin nodded. "But you'll let me know if I can ever help him?" 

Margo smiled and elbowed him in the ribs.

"You've got a good heart, kiddo," she said. "I know why he's soft on you."

Quentin soon learned that Eliot's attacks were not completely unrelated to his lifestyle. It was not that all the parties and alcohol had caused his condition, because obviously, he had had migraines for way longer than he had been allowed to drink, even in secret on the country. But there was a definite relation between the amount of alcohol or drugs Eliot consumed and the attacks triggered in the aftermath.

That part became especially obvious after Mike. 

When Eliot wasn't drinking or medicating, he was out with an attack, and it was hard not to grow worried. Margo's desperation was catching, but even without her visible anxieties as a dead giveaway for how bad things were, Quentin was scared for him. Sometimes, he tried to voice his worries towards Alice, but he felt like she didn't quite get them. Then again, Alice had never grown as close to Eliot as he had.

Maybe that was what provoked him, Margo and Eliot to roll into bed together the moment they were high on emotion magic. Eliot's secret had plaited a bond between them that was hard to grasp for everyone not in the know, and Margo and Quentin's shared worry for their friend pulled it closer and closer until it became impossible to untangle. Add to that the discord between Quentin and Alice and Quentin's own broken brain, and the mixture was bound to explode in a way that left destruction to everything in its path.

Unfortunately, it made Quentin pull away from Eliot for a while as well. It wasn't that his worries for the other boy had disappeared - it was just that his own inward anger and guilt were stronger, and he focused his energy on winning Alice's forgiveness and destroying the beast. 

And then, they made their way to Fillory, and events started to circle out of control: Eliot becoming High King and his subsequent marriage to Fen, him being bound to Fillory, the defeat of the beast and Alice being turned into a Niffin, Quentin leaving Fillory to try and succeed to reverse it, and finally, a long way down the line, Quentin accidentally breaking magic all over the multiverse… it kept them apart for long periods of time with only occasional shared interludes, and while Quentin treasures every moment he shared with Eliot, it was hardly ever enough to find out how he was really doing, aside from checking whether all his limbs were still attached.

It was only until the mosaic quest, when they ventured into the Fillory of the past, that the situation changed drastically. Because suddenly, they were around each other 24/7, and there was nowhere for them to hide when things got especially bad for either of them - and that included Quentin's depression as much as Eliot's migraines. 

Eliot had the first attack around three weeks into the quest. It had been his turn working the tiles and Quentin had watched him, sitting curled up on the bench next to him, lost in his own thoughts. He only snapped out of them when he realised that Eliot had stopped moving, had ceased in his arrangement of the tiles to move his own palm repeatedly up and down in front of his right eye, looking deeply disconcerted.

"El?" Quentin asked. "Are you alright?"

"No," Eliot muttered, and his voice was trembling slightly. "No, I'm really not."

When Eliot didn't elaborate, Quentin got to his feet to approach him carefully. Eliot twitched slightly when Quentin's hand came to rest on his shoulder, as if he hadn't expected it, but he didn't pull away. 

"What is it?" Quentin asked softly. 

"I'm having a fucking attack, that's what!" Eliot ground out, voice slightly hysterical. "And I don't have medication here, Quentin! Bambi brought me some to Fillory so I always had a stack there, but I forgot to take anything with me  _ here!"  _ Eliot' breathing was too fast, a clear indication that he was battling frustration and panic. "I knew it was a mistake the moment we arrived here. I  _ always  _ take my meds with me. But it all happened so fast and there was no time -"

"El," Quentin interrupted him, his voice gentle. "It's going to be okay."

"Oh, and you're such an authority on that, Quentin?!" Eliot snapped, rounding on him. "Because  _ you _ know all about how bad my attacks get when I don't have medication, but sure, it's easy for  _ you  _ to say -"

"You're right, I don't know," Quentin interrupted him, his voice shaking only slightly as he reminded himself that Eliot was lashing out at him because he was the only person around, and for no other reason. "But you're not alone, El. I'm not leaving your side."

Eliot's eyes flickered to his, though they were slightly unfocused. Quentin knew he could only see him partially. He gulped and reached out for Eliot's hand.

"Come on," he said, "let's get you inside."

Eliot went without protest, unusually subdued. 

Their hut was sparsely furnished, but it had two stuffed cotton mattresses for them to spend their nights on, and Quentin was making his way towards them. He wished they had gotten around towards building a bed yet. They had talked about it, but building something for themselves in this place would have made it real that they were here to stay and they weren't ready for that yet. Now, though, Quentin regretted their reluctance. In the absence of proper medication, Eliot could have used the comfort of not sleeping on the hard ground, he was sure.

"Lie down," Quentin instructed, pushing Eliot towards his mattress. "I'll be right back."

He furiously tried to remember everything Margo had told him about Eliot's attacks and what she did to help when he took his meds too late. It felt like a lifetime ago. He remembered something about darkness, though, so he picked up the woollen cover from his mattress and tried to drape it across the window pane. He had to open and close the window again so he could jam the corners of the cover in between the frame, but he somehow made it work. The effect was only minimal, but he felt like the light in the room was at least a little dulled. 

Then, he left the hut once more to grab a bucket of fresh water.  _ A cloth drenched in cold water, pressed against his forehead,  _ Margo had said. He found an old towel amongst their things and made sure to rinse it properly and then drop it into the clean water of the bucket before heading back inside. 

He was careful to be quiet as he entered. He remembered Eliot's sensitivity to noise. Eliot had his eyes closed as Quentin approached, gently placing the bucket on the floor next to his head. Eliot's eyes fluttered open at the sound and he stared at it, then at Quentin. 

"What -" he began.

"For your head," he explained, fishing out the wet cloth and wringing it out. "Margo said it would help?"

"Oh," Eliot blinked, looking surprised. "You talked to her? That's… surprisingly sweet."

"Well, it comes in handy now, anyway," Quentin shrugged, moving to put the cloth on Eliot's forehead, but Eliot stopped him. 

"Not yet," he smiled. "There's one more stage before I'll need it."

"Okay," Quentin nodded, dropping the cloth back into the bucket. "So no headache yet?"

"No," Eliot grimaced. "Right now I just can't see. That's the first symptom."

"Right. The 'aura'."

"You  _ really  _ talked to Margo," Eliot muttered, raising his eyebrows. 

"I told you I did," Quentin shrugged, making himself comfortable on his own mattress next to Eliot's. "So, what's the second stage?"

"I'll start feeling numb on one side of my body," Eliot sighed, his voice tired now. He closed his eyes again but continued talking. "It feels like when your hand falls asleep because you've been lying on it, only it doesn't go away, and it spreads to various body parts. I have it in my face, on my tongue, my arm…"

"Geez, El," Quentin muttered softly.

"I know," Eliot muttered. "It's not fun. I didn't  _ always  _ have it, either, mind you. It started in my Senior Year, as if the  _ normal  _ migraine symptoms weren't sufficient anymore."

Quentin fought the urge to reach out to him only for a moment, then figured that under the circumstances, holding back from giving comfort shouldn't be on top of his list. So he carded his fingers through Eliot's soft curls, relieved when the other huffed out an appreciative hum.

"So the headache comes after?" Quentin asked when Eliot didn't continue. 

"Yes," Eliot sighed. "It feels like my eye is going to pop out, and then I'm getting sick and I'm going to throw up. Are you sure you want to be here for that?" 

"I'm not leaving you," Quentin insisted. "Especially when it's going to get this bad."

"It's not going to be pretty," Eliot warned.

"El," Quentin sighed. "I've seen you literally  _ die  _ in probability spells. I've seen you battle addiction.  _ You've  _ seen  _ me _ when my brain breaks. I think we're past this."

"Okay" Eliot whispered, opening his eyes to send him a soft smile. Then, he grimaced, adding: "But we might need another bucket."

Quentin realised he was right and got up to procure one from outside. When he returned, Eliot was lying on his back, face strained as he flexed the fingers of his left hand. 

"Stage two?" He guessed, setting the bucket down softly. 

"Yes," Eliot groaned. "It always starts from the hand opposite of the 'aura'-infected eye. There's a concept to this madness."

Quentin hesitated before reaching out for his hand. He caught Eliot's fingers between thumb and forefinger, one after the other, and traced them up and down, applying gentle pressure and moving them back and forth. Eliot gasped. 

"Does this help or is it weird?" Quentin frowned. "I do this to myself when my hand falls asleep, so I thought -"

"It feels a little strange," Eliot breathed, eyes still closed. "But not bad. Not at all."

So Quentin kept doing it, gently kneading Eliot's hand as the other kept silent, eyes closed. He wondered sporadically if the numbness had spread to other parts of his body yet, and whether he should touch him anywhere else, but Eliot didn't say anything so he didn't ask.

They sat like that for a long while, until Eliot squirmed, his brows furrowing."I think I need that wet cloth now, Q," he announced, voice strained. 

Quentin let go of Eliot's hand and reached into the bucket, retrieving the towel again and wringing it out until it didn't drop all over the place. It was pleasantly cool against his skin and he hoped it would be enough to soothe Eliot's pain in the absence of proper medication. He handed it to Eliot, who pressed it more against the right bridge of his nose and his closed eyelid than his forehead and turned onto his side, away from Quentin. 

Quentin timidly ran a hand up his arm, trying to give comfort any way he can. 

"Is there anything I can do?" he whispered, trying to keep his voice low.

"Keep touching me," Eliot whispered, his words stilted. "Feels… nice."

"Okay," Quentin nodded, and in a split-second decision, he scrambled up and lifted Eliot's cover. "Budge over a little."

Eliot did and Quentin lay down next to him on the narrow mattress, aligning his chest with Eliot's back and wrapping one arm around his waist. Eliot sighed and sunk into him. 

"I never knew I wanted to be spooned through an attack before," Eliot muttered, managing to somehow convey his amusement despite the pain he was in. "Today is full of surprises."

"Stop joking around and rest," Quentin scolded, smiling fondly. 

Eliot nodded and fell silent. 

It soon became apparent how much pain he was in, especially with how tightly they were pressed together. Eliot kept tensing up and squirming in Quentin's arms, not trying to get away but rather crawling in on himself, pulling up his long legs, hunching his shoulders forward, pressing his fist against his eyeball as if he was trying to push it into his skull. A couple of times, he let out a pained whimper and Quentin would hold him a little tighter in response, reminding him that he wasn't alone. 

Quentin wasn't sure how much time passed. It felt like forever, with nothing to do but lie there and watch Eliot suffer. He had never felt someone else's pain this vividly before. Sure, he had been scared for people he loved - his father, Alice, even Eliot himself - but this was different because he knew that Eliot wasn't in any direct danger. He wouldn't  _ die _ from this. He had gone through countless of attacks and come out unscathed.

But that didn't make lying here with him as it happened any less difficult, knowing there was nothing he could do to ease his friend's pain. 

At some point, Eliot twitched and moved to sit up.

"Q," he ground out. "I -"

And Quentin understood immediately. He grabbed the empty bucket from where he had placed it behind him and handed it to Eliot. Eliot turned away from him, heaved and vomited into it. 

Quentin sat up as well, reaching out to stroke back Eliot's hair, holding the stubborn curls out of the way as he heaved, over and over again. When he finally calmed down, he lowered one hand to run calming circles over his back. 

"Oh god," Eliot breathed, and his voice sounded so thin, so unlike himself. "My  _ head. _ "

"Shhh," Quentin soothed, instinctively taking over. He took the bucket from Eliot's hands and vanished the contents with a spell before setting it back where it belonged. He picked up the cloth Eliot had dropped, wetting it again and turned Eliot towards him. 

Eliot's eyes were closed and his pallor was appalling. He was sweating all over and there were stray tears running down his cheeks. Quentin willed his fingers not to tremble as he used the cloth to clean his face, then gently urged him to lie back down. He dipped the cloth into the water once more, cleaning it, wringing it out and putting it back onto Eliot's forehead. The other brought his hand up to adjust it to his needs, then curled into Quentin when he lay back down. 

"Was that the worst of it?" Quentin asked softly. Eliot shook his head, looking so miserable that Quentin felt horrible for asking. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head in silent support. 

Eliot battled the attack through the rest of the day and most of the night. When they both finally fell into a deep sleep, they had repeated the earlier scenes countless times, over and over again, with the result of Eliot becoming more and more pain-ridden each time. Quentin couldn't help but think back to what Margo had told him, about his father making him work on the fields throughout his attacks, and felt sick at the thought. 

How could anyone look at Eliot in this state and think he was acting?

When Quentin woke up the next morning, Eliot was still asleep and he decided to let him rest for as long as possible. He extricated himself carefully without rousing him and left the hut to prepare breakfast, figuring Eliot would need something in his stomach eventually. After all, he had emptied it over and over again. 

When Eliot finally surfaced, it was late afternoon. He still looked like hell cooked over and he shielded his eyes from the light as he stepped outside. 

"Hey," Quentin said softly, dropping the tile he had just contemplated placing. "How are you?"

"I've been better," Eliot rasped. "Head still hurts, though not as bad as last night. It's the aftermath."

"You should eat," Quentin suggested, nodding to the sandwiches he'd prepared. "It's cucumber."

Eliot smiled at that, just a little. 

"You're a marvel, Q," he breathed. "No one has ever taken care of me through an attack like you, not even Margo."

Quentin shrugged, flushing slightly in embarrassment. 

"We're a team," he muttered. "We need to stick together. You're all I have, El."

"Right," Eliot breathed, their eyes catching for a moment longer before Eliot sat down on the bench next to the mosaic, picking up a sandwich. 

And that's how the pattern developed. When Eliot had an attack, Quentin jumped into action, becoming his carer. Eliot paid him back in kind, stepping up whenever Quentin's mind spiralled out of control, soothing his self-doubt and anxieties to the best of his abilities. 

They really were a team. No. They were  _ partners.  _ And even when Arielle and Teddy entered the scene, that fact changed only minimally, because, in moments of need, they would turn towards each other first. 

Quentin spent a lot of time thinking and then again not thinking about his feelings for Eliot. It became all so entangled eventually that it was hard to distinguish one emotion from the other. 

He knew that he loved him, without a doubt. 

He knew that he was attracted to him. And he knew that the feeling was mutual, for they indulged in enough intimacy for it to be otherwise. 

He knew that, despite his devotion to the deceased Arielle, he would not trade Eliot for anything. That he needed him more than anyone else in the world, and that this was hard for him to put into appropriate words.

So when Eliot died peacefully in his presence, it was like the ground had slipped from underneath his feet. Because of all the people, he couldn't lose  _ Eliot. _

Finding the golden tile while digging his grave had seemed like the cruellest irony, especially when Jane Chatwin had appeared and Quentin had realised he'd needed to hand the key to her. 

What had it all been _for_, in the end?

But thinking back on their life, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. They might have failed, but the life he had spent with Eliot, it had been  _ worth it _ .

So Quentin wrote a letter to Margo, making sure with Teddy's children that it would be delivered to her on her wedding day in the future, informing her of Eliot's death and everything that had let up to it. He also handed her the information she needed to find the key and maybe, to stop Eliot and him from embarking upon this quest altogether. It was a faint hope, he knew, but he couldn't help but think that, if he got to see Eliot again, it would be worth it. 

Margo, of course, never disappointed. 

They shouldn't have remembered their erased life together, by all means. It shouldn't have been possible. But reading his own words and taking in the scent of the peach Eliot was consuming next to him, it all came crashing down on him. He only needed to glance at Eliot to know that the other felt the same. 

Quentin spoke without thinking. The longing for Eliot and for what they'd had throughout their past life overwhelmed him completely and he didn't  _ want  _ to stop himself from drowning in it. 

"I know this sounds dumb," he began, haltingly, words both tumbling over themselves and not wanting to come out at all, "but… us… I mean, think about it, we work." He caught Eliot's eyes, and he thought he saw something in them, something that reflected the same longing he felt right back. "We know it cause we lived it," Quentin pushed on. "Who gets that kind of proof of concept?"

Eliot just stared at him. He opened his mouth and closed it again, apparently unable to produce any words. It was alien to Quentin, seeing Eliot speechless. Eliot always seemed to have the right words for every situation, even if they were just a quip.

But as the silence dragged on, Quentin recognised the vulnerability of that silence. 

_ Things aren't usually worth caring about,  _ Eliot had once told him, shortly before the last relationship he'd dared endeavour into had ended in the death of his partner. He remembered the way it had destroyed Eliot and how it had taken months and his new role at Fillory to put him halfway back together. And even throughout their life together, he had hidden behind Arielle and Teddy, maybe convincing himself that as long as other people were involved, it wasn't  _ real. _

"El," Quentin whispered, and before Eliot could retreat any further from him, he was reaching out.

He remembered kissing Eliot for the first time perched on their mosaic, on their one-year-anniversary, shy and chaste before Eliot had reciprocated, making it count for something. 

This kiss was different,  _ more _ . He wasn't testing the waters, feeling out whether or not his approach would be welcome. No, he was rather trying to remind Eliot that this was nothing to be afraid of, and that Quentin might be a mess himself most of the time but that he would  _ always  _ be there to take care of him.

Eliot's breath stuttered against his lips, and then he shuddered, melting into it. One of his hands came up to the back of Quentin's neck, the way he'd always loved to hold him, the way _Quentin_ had always loved it when Eliot had touched him, deepening their kiss into something unstoppable, a pitless descent that none of them could cushion.

When they finally broke away for air, they were both breathing hard and Eliot was blinking quickly. 

"This is insane," Eliot whispered, his voice shaking. "We were just injected with a half-century of emotion, we're not -" 

"El," Quentin interrupted him, catching his eyes again, fingers findings a stray lock of his hair and stroking it back from his face. "I  _ know _ what I'm feeling, and so do you. So stop being a dick. Don't fight it, okay? Let's just try this, for once, in the real world. Don't we deserve to be happy for real?"

"I don't know," Eliot muttered, "I don't know if I deserve that."

"Well _I_ say you do," Quentin told him fiercely, tugging at that strand of hair. "After all that we've been through, we more than do. Both of us."

"Q…" Eliot breathed, and his eyes were glistening. 

Quentin rested their foreheads together, taking a deep breath. 

"What do you want?" he breathed. "Tell me. Honestly."

For a long while, Eliot didn't answer, and Quentin thought he wasn't going to, but then, the quiet rasp of his voice almost made him twitch.

"I want to wake up in the morning and find you next to me," Eliot murmured. "I want to… Fuck, Q. I want you to hold me when I have a stupid attack. I want to chase away your demons when your brain breaks again. I want to never stop kissing you. I want -" he took a trembling breath, giving him a slight shake of his head. "I want too much."

"Okay," Quentin nodded, smiling. "Yeah. I want that, too. Let's do that."

"Fen -" Eliot began, but Quentin cut him off with a short, demonstrative kiss.

"Fen will understand," Quentin reminded him. "It's not like you were ever in a romantic relationship. You were about to marry another man at some point. We'll explain, and I'm sure she'll understand."

"Yeah," Eliot breathed, gulping thickly. His eyes travelled over Quentin's face, as if he was the only thing keeping him from bolting back to earth. "Yeah. Right." Another beat of silence, then: "Kiss me again, Coldwater. If you're going to be my boyfriend, you're going to fucking spoil me until I can't _think_ anymore, do you understand?"

Quentin huffed out a laugh and a hesitant smile broke out on Eliot's face as Quentin leaned in, scrambling to fulfil that demand to the best of his abilities. 

Things after weren't a magical happily-ever-after, because life seemed never as simple for them, if at Fillory or at Brakebill's. There were always new problems turning up, new challenges to face. One fix kept creating a myriad of new fissures for them to mend.

At least that meant life never got boring, though?

Quentin's brain kept breaking. Eliot's migraines kept coming. Eliot kept having his own issues regarding self-worth and loss while Quentin periodically slipped into dark periods, convinced that Eliot didn't want him. 

It was never easy. 

But it was  _ beautiful.  _

To Quentin, it was the smallest moments that made everything worth it, like Eliot's smile when he opened his eyes the first thing in the morning or his fingers in Quentin's hair. The comfort a simple embrace could provide. The warmth he felt every time he looked into those eyes.

"You're back," Margo sighed, looking up from her correspondence as Quentin returned to the throne room at Whitespire after a short visit to Julia's on earth. "Thank God. Off to Eliot's chamber's you go."

"Something wrong?" Quentin raised his eyebrows, looking from her to Fen, who was sitting in a corner munching away on Josh's cupcakes. 

"Migraine," she informed him with a full mouth, then had the decency to look embarrassed to be pinching away at cakes as her husband was suffering.

Quentin sighed, making a sharp turn to head for Eliot's chambers right away. "See you around," he told them. Fen waved and Margo just raised her hand absentmindedly. 

Eliot's rooms were dark and silent as he slid into them, and he found his boyfriend sprawled underneath the luxurious silk sheets, eyes closed. He carefully climbed into the bed next to him, unsure if Eliot was really asleep, but as soon as he'd settled, the other man shifted to rest his head on Quentin's chest. Quentin brought one hand up to his hair, carefully petting the soft curls. 

"How are you?" he whispered.

"Took meds in time," Eliot muttered. "Still got a headache and feel slightly nauseous."

Quentin nodded. "I brought you new meds from earth," he noted. "I saw you were about to run out."

"Thanks," Eliot breathed, squeezing an arm around his waist. "You're my favourite nerd, after all. I'll keep you."

Quentin smiled, leaning down to kiss his forehead. 

"I love you, too," he breathed, making Eliot huff in what would have been a chuckle if not for his headache.

It might not be perfect. But it was damn beautiful, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, please follow me on twitter! You can find me under @IntoBlondPrats. I'm pretty multifandom and only recently got into The Magicians, and I don't know anyone in the fandom yet because I'm too anxious to talk to people. So if you want to chat, please drop me a message :)


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